ED
It took days of steadily mounting media interest followed by a Saturday-night vote that Ed and Pasha sailed through before management took them seriously.
They set their sights on Ed first, and came for him midway through the next week.
The creak of the rehearsal door opening and closing was his only warning. As he’d half expected, they’d waited until he was alone and made sure he was outnumbered.
“A moment of your time, Ed.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Gerry Hanson, the show’s creator, stood with his hands behind his back on the far side of the huge space. A smooth-looking executive Ed recognized as someone from the TV franchise stood to his right. On his left, the musical director, Tom, held some sheet music.
Finally.
All the big guns at once.
Gerry visiting during rehearsals was almost unheard-of.
It was good they’d come for him first, Ed decided. Even better that Pasha wasn’t here to see it. Up until today, he’d been full of piss and vinegar—ready to stand up to anything thestudio threw their way. He’d been as cute as hell too, if Ed was being honest, staggering down to breakfast every morning so far to seek out a sleepy cuddle in the kitchen. He’d aim natural looking, soft smiles Ed’s way within range of the CCTV, like no one else was watching.
The fans went crazy for live stream footage of Pasha sitting on Ed’s lap, and they made GIFs of Ed holding him steady whenever Pasha leaned across the table to reach the jam or butter.
It wasn’t difficult to fake affection when Pasha fed him bites of his toast, but Pasha’s easy wide smile had faded during this morning’s rehearsal. As the practice dragged on, two of the boy band had provoked conflict by taking turns to needle him. He’d left the moment they’d broken for lunch today without looking back once, and now Ed was glad that he had.
“I think,” Gerry said, his tone of command carrying easily across the room, “that we might need to straighten out a situation.”
Ed turned to face him, but he didn’t move toward the three men. Instead, he took a long slow sip from his water bottle and then set it down. If they wanted to intimidate him, they’d have to try much harder than turning up mob-handed. When it came to holding his ground, he’d had more than a little practice.
He’d be fucked if he’d move first.
The producer was the first to break the standoff. He quirked a rolled-up newspaper in Ed’s direction, a clear summons that he should come and get it.
The room was high ceilinged and cavernous, the floor covered in mats, discarded warm-up clothing, and abandoned microphone stands. Despite the clutter, it echoed as if empty. The sound of the newspaper striking the sprung dance floor boomed like a far-off cannon.
Ed held his ground, regardless.
Outside, an emergency vehicle passed, bright blue flickers from its lights speckling the vaulted ceiling, its sirens loudly wailing. The silence once it had passed was intense, broken only when Gerry finally cursed and gave in. He stepped forward, flanked by the men he’d brought as backup. Ed’s satisfaction at winning the first skirmish—a small curl of pleasure he tucked away to share with Pasha later—didn’t show on his face.
He braced, ready for the confrontation he’d been expecting.
It came, as attacks did so often, from unexpected angles.
The music director, Tom, had been happy to see him that morning. Now he simply looked sick. He said, “We need to adjust your solo in the next opening whole-group number.” One of Tom’s hands was shoved deep in his pocket, but Ed noticed the fabric bunch and pull as if his hand was making a fist. “They think….” Tom cleared his throat and glanced to where the other two men nodded. “Here.” He offered some sheet music. “These are the changes.”
Ed skimmed the score until he saw his name.
“Why the change, Gerry?” He looked the man in the eye rather than addressing Tom.
The unknown TV executive answered instead. “The lyrics in the solo might exacerbate the current ‘situation.’ There’s no need to add fuel to that fire, particularly when the advertisers pay such close attention.”
“What ‘situation,’ exactly?” Ed kept a lid on his temper. The chance to solo in the group song was usually a sure-fire vote winner. He’d fight to keep it before rolling over.
Gerry took one step nearer. The scent of his aftershave was strong. It didn’t mix well with the acrid aroma of the cigars he smoked. This close, the stench made Ed’s nose wrinkle.
“What do you understand by the term ‘brinkmanship,’ Ed?”
Understand by it? He’d lived it.
Sometimes pushing a dangerous situation to its limit was the only way to break a stalemate. Casualties didn’t matter as long as enemies backed down. Yes, Ed had been at the sharp end of brinkmanship more times than he could remember.